


Beneath This Veneer, I Crack Away

by Grandeur (Megane)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bonding, Contemplation, Genderfluid Character, Heart-to-Heart, Man vs. Self, My Inquisitor Still Has No Name, Nonbinary Character, One Mention of Iron Bull Here, Prompt Fill, Secret Hideouts, Teasing, Tension, Understanding, internal struggles, light comedy, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Grandeur
Summary: The Inquisitor has a lot on their mind. They realise how much the responsibility gets to them. They like helping people—they truly do, but a part of them hates what's in front of them. They want to run away; they want to throw their life away for the greater good; they want to… They want to scream about it, about everything that weighs heavy in their heart. Thankfully, Isiah's there to listen to them.





	Beneath This Veneer, I Crack Away

     "So…" began a clever little voice. “I can tell something’s bothering you.”

     "I don’t have time to talk, Isiah.“

     "Funny because I’ve been here for a least twenty minutes and you’ve just been staring — rather angrily, might I add — into space.”

The Inquisitor frowned deeply before letting out a long sigh. They brought a hand up to their face and rubbed over their tense features. If they truly wanted Isiah gone, the order would have been given, and Isiah would have left. But as it was, silence filled the space between the two. Taking that as a sign, Isiah hopped from over the balcony railing and stepped closer to their Herald. They slid their gloves into the holsters behind their back and moved their fingers in a flowing wave.

     "Let’s try this again.“ Isiah placed their hands on their hips. They waited a beat. “…Do you need to vent?”

The Inquisitor pulled their hand down from their face, fingers curling under their pointed jaw as they squinted up at the taller masked fighter. There was so much going on behind their amethyst eyes, Isiah could tell. Numerous emotions were clashing in a small scale war. And there were small movements outside of that: their jaw shifted and set; their fingers gave the slightest twitch. Even though the Inquisitor had yet to say a single word, the small tells of their body spoke volumes

     "Take that mask off your face,“ the Inquisitor said, slightly exasperated.

At the mention of the mask, Isiah jerked in place and then reached up to their face. Their nails tapped against the clay mask with exaggerated fear and trepidation. Upon feeling the smooth features, Isiah jumped once again and began to mime out their fear, panicking over the loss of their true face. The Inquisitor merely watched. Their gaze was flat and unamused, the exasperation full and fresh on their face.

     "Isiah.”

The single call of their name was enough of a signal that now was not the time for joking. With Isiah around, it hardly ever was—but that was a different conversation entirely. They reached up to unhook their mask.

     "Sure thing," Isiah replied in a soft, floating voice. After pulling off the mask, they clipped it onto their sash belt. Now that their face was free, they brought their hands to their hips again. "Now… What's troubling you?"

Pleased with the change but not showing it, the Inquisitor gave a labored sigh and pushed away from the balcony doorframe they were leaning against. Isiah was quick to take their place and watched as the Herald crossed the room over to their desk. The Inquisitor rested their hands on the back of the chair. Silence again, heavy this time—far more contemplative. It radiated like sun rays off the Inquisitor's body. There was a moment—the smallest second—when Isiah thought to get closer. Perhaps to offer comfort either physically or verbally, but in the end, they stayed where they were. The Inquisitor continued to stare at their desk.

     "I hate this…" they said finally. Their voice was small and broken. "I honestly believe… that I hate this.“

     "Hate what?” Isiah asked, leaning their head back against the wall but keeping their focus on the Herald.

     "Being the Inquisitor. I hate being someone else’s crutch— someone else’s answers to their problem. I hate when people rush to me calling me their Herald, thinking me their Hope. Wanting me to fight every monster and enemy that comes their way. Thinking I'll coordinate every 'valiant effort' to civilise this broken world." The Inquisitor balled up their fist and then slammed their hand down. “Figure out yourselves, dammit. I don’t have time!”

Isiah watched quietly. The Inquisitor's room was super imposed with Hawke's manor for a second, and then Fenris', and then Bartrand's estate. These memories passed in seconds with every minor action the Inquisitor took. Isiah closed their eyes and took in a deep breath. When the Inquisitor sighed, so did Isiah. They opened their eyes again. The Herald unclenched their fist and smoothed their fingers over the surface of their desk. Their fingertips brushed against spread out paperwork. The half filled inkwell was shifted from its place with an idle pass.

     "Sometimes I just want to run away, go fight Corypheus and damn the consequences for doing so," the Inquisitor admitted.

     "…What if you’re not ready.”

     The Inquisitor turned their head, staring off at a wall. “Who cares if I’m not ready… It’s all about dying in a blaze of glory— doing my best for Thedas, the world. Who cares what really becomes of me.” They bowed their head completely and closed their eyes. "This world lives for legends; they radicalise for victors. They want the hero in their head, not the hero they have."

     "Twisted thoughts,“ Isiah said pensively as they pushed away from the wall. They then walked over towards the Inquisitor and placed their hands over the toned shoulders. “Luckily, that’s my specialty. Come, Inquisitor. Let’s take a walk.”

Isiah quirked their fingers to pull the Inquisitor away from their growing ruminations. There was a storm cloud brewing behind the amethyst eyes, and Isiah would _attempt_ to disperse it before something important was damaged. The Inquisitor sighed and allowed themself to be pulled away. Isiah was merciful in giving them space. The Inquisitor didn't ask where they were going; they only followed quietly. Down the stairs, into the hall, down more slightly twisting stairs. Once they were in the open, someone began rushing forward—a messenger, young too—and Isiah intercepted. They moved quickly like they were in battle. They took the message with one hand and placed the other on the courier's shoulder. Using their forward momentum, they spun the young courier around and pushed her back the way she came. The courier made soft noises of indignation but left as she was silently instructed.

     Isiah walked backwards until they were in step with the Inquisitor once more. The shorter Herald raised their brows up at Isiah and then looked to the message. "What does it say?" they asked. Tired.  _Resigned._

     "Let's see," the masqrader muttered. They unfurled the parchment and skimmed over it. "'Dear Inquisitor, your envoy and shipment were well received…' 'Total morale has improved…' Blah, blah, something about a festival."

     "Festival?" the Inquisitor's brows scrunched.

     Isiah curled up the message again and slapped it against their open palm. "Nonsense," they reported flippantly. "Nothing you have to worry about."

     The Inquisitor's shoulders slumped, and then they reached out for the scroll. "It's rude to turn down an invitation."

     "Ah-ah!" Isiah bounded up onto one foot and held the scroll out of reach. "I'll had this over to Josephine, and she'll decide if it's that important."

     "But—"

     "You're  _off_ for today." Isiah twirled the parchment over their palm thoughtfully. "Perhaps not for the entire day, but right now, you are."

The Inquisitor stared at them but then quickly and silently conceded. A part of them was thankful to abandon even the smallest hint of responsibility. Their body moved on instinct now, reaching out for any missive that came their way. They hated it; they hated the exhaustion that always came with it, but they did it. One day, they hoped they would do nothing at all…

Reading the air, Isiah silently dismissed themself to run off and find Josephine. The Inquisitor took to a wall and waited. Surprisingly, there wasn't a single thought in their head. They stared at the well decorated hall, at the carpet, and the vaulted ceilings and felt nothing—observed nothing. They licked their lips and set their gaze low again. Was this to be their life? Hollow and numbly moving through the motions? Thankfully, Isiah returned before they could think anything of it.

The two continued on their way again, and the silence persisted for much longer. It was nice, just having company. Especially when Isiah was quick to intercept or discourage anyone that approached. Especially when Skyhold was as beautiful and cold as it was busy. Especially when company could be as quiet as the grave but as present as a forest. After countless minutes of walking together, the Inquisitor sighed heavily. Their breath formed a soft cloud of steam in front of their face.

     "Well, Isiah…"

     "Yes?"

     "Don't you have any questions for me…? Aren't you going to ask where's my morale? Why I'm suddenly thinking about running myself into danger and damning the consequences?" Isiah stopped and so did the Inquisitor. "Aren't you going to ask me to think of the people and not myself for a change?"

     "No," said Isiah certainly. "I wasn't going to ask you any of that. Though, I did want to know how you felt about climbing."

     Confusion replaced the bone deep hopelessness. "Pardon?"

Isiah motioned a hand up towards a building, and the Inquisitor turned. It was a tower with two small windows up at that top. The structure itself was ill built; the stones stuck out in odd places; and from here, the Inquisitor could see that the tower was even leaning slightly. But, it was solid still. It was just a wonder what left it in such standing. They pulled away from their observations and returned to Isiah's indirect question.

     "Climbing…?" they asked themself. They looked from the tower to the masqrader this time. "Are we headed up there?"

     "Best place to have a conversation. The stairs have collapsed on the inside, and I haven't asked anyone to come clean it up. Or rather…" They rolled their pointing hand in a vague shape. "I haven't asked  _you_ to ask someone else to come clean it up yet."

     "I see. Well…" The Inquisitor rubbed their hands together. Ah… It was getting colder here. They should have brought their furs and something for their feet. "I don't mind. It's an easy climb, yes?"

     "Easy enough. But I can always drop the ladder for you if you want."

     "A ladder?" The Inquisitor stared at their companion in surprise. "Why would there be a ladder up there?"

     "Come now, Inquisitor. Am I not allowed to have my own hideaway and bring up my friends?"

The fatigue and resentment and frustration was forgotten the moment the Inquisitor laughed. It was disbelieving, and Isiah merely smirked at them before advancing towards the tower. The Herald immediately fell in step.

     "There's so much to unpack there. I… don't quite know what to say."

     "A simple yes or no will suffice for the ladder."

     Feeling the need to call their bluff, the Inquisitor simply nodded. "Of course. Sure then, bring me the ladder."

It didn't take long for Isiah to climb the tower—not at all. As soon as they disappeared inside, a rope ladder unfurled from the window, and the Inquisitor laughed again.

     "I'll be damned," they said then as they stepped closer to the wall. "There really was a ladder up there."

     "There are a number of things in here," Isiah said coolly, posed in the opening of the window. "Namely something to keep you warm if you're cold, Inquisitor."

     "I'd like that," they grunted back.

When they were close, Isiah removed themself from the window and stepped further into the room. They paced around, grabbing little bits and bobs from what was stashed in crates, and the Inquisitor drew up the ladder once again. They settled it on the floor under the window before taking a look around. The interior was simple but functional. There were a couple of tapestries hanging from the wall and a massive embroidered rug in the center of the room. Crates covered a good portion of the rug, but the design was still easy to make out. The Inquisitor also noticed that there was one more feature to this tower they never realised. 

There was the window they crawled through and the one directly across from it, but between the two, there was a slightly smaller, almost circular window. A recess was carved into the wall underneath it, and it had a couple of sheets and pillows on top of it. For all intensive purposes, it looked cozy enough. Inviting enough. 

     "Go have a seat," Isiah encouraged as though reading the Inquisitor's mind. "I'll be there in a moment."

     "Sure thing…" 

The Inquisitor crossed over and sat down in the padded recess. First thing they noticed was that the blankets were  _cold_ , freezing actually. A hard shudder ran up their body, and they huffed a curse as they made themself comfortable. They were comfortable in one aspect. The recess was so well-decorated that it was impossible to feel the stone underneath, but now they had a chill running through their body that they couldn't ignore. Sure enough though, Isiah approached moments later with a bundle of covers and a small stack of slender firewood. The Inquisitor accepted the blankets but stared curiously at the wood.

Neither of them said anything, and Isiah didn't even acknowledge the Inquisitor's gaze. They knelt down and nudged the covers already there out of the way. Hidden away was a small little hearth with enough space to fit the firewood Isiah had brought over. The Inquisitor let out a small noise of surprise. When the hearth was filled and the fire was lit, Isiah climbed into the nook and sat across from the Inquisitor. They drew their legs up and smirked at their Herald.

     "I'm surprised," the Inquisitor admitted.

     "As you should be." Isiah chuckled.

     "I don't suppose you have any tea?"

     "Give me a minute to scrounge through the shipment, and I might be able to find something."

     The Inquisitor laughed gently and began unfurling their covers. "That's okay."

Isiah had brought two blankets, both for the Inquisitor, but the Herald separated them both and threw one to Isiah, who only raised their brows. When there was no reply, they accepted the blanket quietly. This was nice… It felt so nice to be in someone's company and just enjoy the moment. A warm fire, amiable silence, beautiful scenery… The Inquisitor turned their head and looked out the circular window. Creators be blessed… They could see so much from here. A small smile touched their face. They wanted this to last for as long as it could.

Which… probably wouldn't be much longer. The Inquisitor knew they were in charge of leading this conversation forward. Isiah had brought them here for a reason. Maybe they could deceive themself into thinking that there was nothing to talk about. Maybe they could take advantage of this moment and get the peace they so deserved. Maybe… They could… but in in the end, it wouldn't solve anything. They licked their lips and prepared for what they were about to say.

     "I truly hate it," they started softly, hating to break this moment with their troubles. "But I want this more than anything. I feel powerful—and not in a hungry or greedy way. I…" They looked down between their and Isiah's covered legs, searching the blanketed space for words. "I feel… powerful. I feel as if I can get stuff done. If I say the world, people would move mountains for me. If I even wish it, I could save as many people as I could. I could stop clans from collapsing; I could save history from ruin."

     Isiah wasn't looking at them. They were staring out the window, and when the Inquisitor stopped talked, Isiah's lip quirked up in the corner. "Such passion… But much of the latter isn't possible."

     "It isn't possible," the Herald repeated in agreement, "but that's how it feels. That's how it feels to have what I have in my hands. All this boundless opportunity, but it's not as altruistic as that. There's work to be done; there are negotiations to be had, and every time someone calls upon me, the reality sets in. There is ruin and conceit and deception in this land. There are people who hate me for my halfling race; there are people who hate you for what you've done. There are people who  _hate_ the Inquisition for what we represent."

     Isiah's eyes closed for a second. No, it was better to say that they oh so slowly blinked and looked in the Inquisitor's direction. "And what do we represent, Herald?"

     "…P-peace?" They looked to meet Isiah's eyes. The question felt imploring. Isiah didn't respond, and the Inquisitor looked away again, searching some part of their soul for whatever it was they truly want to say. "Peace… Equality… A hope in spite of everything that stands in their way…" They frowned. "An answer for Corypheus. A plan of action when people are too caught up in their personal politics to see what lies in front of them. A strong voice in the wasteland of betrayal; a sword to divide those who prove to be toxic opposition."

     "But I thought you hated being someone else's hope," Isiah prodded gently. They bundled their blanket closer to their body idly. "I thought you didn't want to be someone else's crutch."

Whatever passion was building inside of the Inquisitor crumbled, and so did their bravado. Their lips quirked, and they let out a soft sigh. They curled up in a ball, touching their forehead to their blanketed knees.

     "I don't," they said, their voice muffled. "I want to be anything but that right now. As I said, the reality of it is much more fearsome. To know that people rely on you to follow through, to know that there are others who are betting on me to fail— that I have so much power to shift things in whatever favour I can… startles me. I've never had that power— No one man should have all this power. But groups can't be trusted either. Any sentient thing cannot be trusted to help shape the future of Thedas."

     "So what's the answer, Inquisitor?"

     "I… I don't know— No, I don't understand: for myself or for Thedas?"

     "For yourself." Isiah freed a hand and motioned to the outside world. "I don't much care what happens to Thedas as a whole. That turns into an argument that can turn one mad. It becomes a craving for power and a crusade that no one should embark on. Let Thedas be as it is for now. The world will sort itself out in the macrocosm."

The Inquisitor nodded, but they needed a moment to think. What did they want for themself? In all of this tangled emotion, they knew they wouldn't walk away from any of this. It would practically kill them to do so. And with this mark in their hand, it would be nigh impossible to escape anyway, right? Were Corypheus not a threat at all, maybe things would be different, but… They straightened up and leaned their head back to stare up at the ceiling.

     "I don't know…" they said finally. "I need some way to relieve this tension. I need some way to… to… escape my head for a bit whenever it becomes too much."

     "I'm sure Iron Bull would be happy to assist in an intimate nature, if that's what you're saying," Isiah teased.

The Inquisitor snapped their attention to Isiah immediately and blushed. Unwilling to uncurl their arms from their blankets, they reached out a foot and kicked Isiah, who only laughed. They shrugged up their shoulder and leaned against the window.

     "I'm just saying."

     "I  _know_ what you're saying, Isiah Autumne!"

     "First and last? Aah, I'm in trouble."

     "Scoundrel," the Inquisitor mumbled.

They ducked their head to rub the blanket against their cheeks. There wasn't much escape from how pink their cheeks had turned, but with the little motion, they could pretend. When they brought their hands down, they pouted at Isiah, who stared at them with a tilted smile. The masqrader winked before sitting up straight again. The Inquisitor huffed, but they smiled a bit in return.

     "I just want to be okay with this. Maybe not all at once but little by little. I believe in this. I have great faith in what we're doing, but I'm just  _afraid,_ Isiah."

     "No one has never said that you couldn't be." They reached out a placed a hand on the Inquisitor's knee. "But we've to persevere in spite of it."

     "People expect me to be fearless. They expect me to be level headed and certain in everything I do…"

     "Yes, well. People are disappointing as are their expectations." They patted the Inquisitor's leg and drew back, tucking back into their blanket once again. They didn't really seem to need it for warmth; it was purely a comfort thing. The Inquisitor appreciated it regardless.

     "…Thank you, Isiah. I… I feel much better now."

     "Getting your thoughts out into the world usually helps like that."

     The Inquisitor bit their cheek, debating for a moment, before asking: "And what of you, Isiah? What weighs that madman's heart of yours?"

     Isiah sighed dramatically, turning their attention to the outside. "Who knows, Inquisitor? Maybe with enough contemplation, I'll figure that out myself."

     "Of course," the Herald said. But they weren't discouraged. If anything, they were only amused. They smiled at Isiah's profile and swore that they saw the faintest hint of a smile in return. "Shall we speak of other things…?"

     "You know Sera has been moving your things around in your chamber, right?"

     "Has she!" The Inquisitor sat up straight. Isiah laughed.

     "I wouldn't lie to you, Inquisitor."

     "No wonder I can't find my hairbrush!"

They spoke of trivial things from there—pranks and recipes and strange dreams and silly fantasies. Though Isiah spoke in riddles at times and the Inquisitor offered vagueries of their own, the two became closer that day. Hidden away as they were in a tower, broken from strange circumstances but still standing tall and strong.


End file.
